Month: December 2016

Selected Non Haikus Written in the Theme of Yeezus

Selected Non Haikus Written in the Theme of Yeezus

  1. Winter pink sky,alien unbound floating,cumulo cirrus nursery.
  2. Cold darkness,warms blood with fear of death
  3. Certainly I’m of blood and flesh, but of these chains i will not speak.
  4. In dreams i walk quickly towards dead mountains, smiling stupidly with justice.
  5. Beneath the seas crepuscular beings hold councils on our being allowed to continue.
  6. Human, walking pressurized suit, careful, lest you pop.
  7. Vivaldi drunk in hell or heaven of your own make, Im sorry I missed the madness of your wake.
  8. Pulsing morning I hear your suns orb calling, see it as it crests the tree broken horizon , curse  the earthbound god whose worship has strapped me to an spinning rock.
  9. Poetry is written on the broken backs of men we have forgotten, no heroes in any war, no justifications.
  10. Pen bleed yourself dry of me, family of mine in the distance, i hope to not crush you with my love, a man holding a bird climbing a mountain with one hand.
  11. Fill the jails with innocents, to the brim, fat guards and bad government.
  12. Artists abound but no art, all of their murals live inside of their ego.
  13. God willing, Ill burn with the best of em.
  14. As words are beams i travel, I aim them towards a purpose.
Dream Talk

Dream Talk

Dead silence of cold, leaves stir and i Imagine skeletal limbs raking against one another, more leaves fall, a wind blows.

I wish i were Japanese, I stare at maps of their deeply forested island, there,

thats where I would live , in the bole of a tree, until some warm furry happy mammal being with minimal speech skills would become my friend,

start a new world.

But Im here,

tomorrow we sell all the forests, set the rivers aflame and go to the ominous Bank to collect our dole.

Somewhere i hear a voice like Reagan’s but not a fascist,

Mr. Bradshaw tear down this wall!

I wake.

Slave of Circadia

Slave of Circadia

I stand over the toilet and huff, my face red, dawn an orb of white piercing the black full  pines ,

pregnant with chlorophyll despite the cold , unaffected, full dreams falling with each drop of dew,

someone is tuning into the news, baboons with illusions preaching the new doctrine, unleavened followers of a secret they are unaware of ,

they press the remote.

again, and again,

a sharp red signal in my slick heart makes me stare into the trees for birds to fly me away on their wings, but i know my weight would break their paltry avian wings,

the dawn watches me as it rises, gods smile, frown, gift and mistake.

Loosely Based Accuracy

Loosely Based Accuracy

Let me describe to you what it is like to lose your mind and body at once as December burns out of the window and the leaves of rebirth/death hit the ground and woo us from misery but not quite.  Imagine death as a companion, he converses with you.

Pain, anger: his friends glide with you as if without feet, always conversing, speaking so as you cannot hear, and yet pushing your buttons, you powerless, mountains off in distances seem closer often than my mind.

If i were to die and have not written what will it have meant, if things mean things then why do we allow each day, for what would be better in us to die at the foot of capitulation with evil however small? Why are we not screaming at the tops of our lungs at the glory of life, piecing together the majesty, why always do we look at the hair in the wrong place when so much is in place? Christ was damn funny when he said why worry about the speck in your neighbors eye when a very plank is propped out of yours, ha.

This is only and will always only be a memoir, I have nothing to prove, but to write is to exist at least in the way i wish to, outside of the grasps of the nomenclature of the commonplace, free of the burden of verisimilitude.  I at least have my crippling diseases to thank for lots of free time and the ability to not slave away for what i deem a monstrous and totally capricious system I did not agree to and only adhered to because of the prison of pressure applied by the horde.  The horde has no power where death holds sway and their voice dims as waves of pain rise, so too do waves of strength and intellectual capacity one would think impossible, the tolerance is a lesson in a discipline that  a Kung Fu master would envy. All is not lost.

Holdin’ it In

Holdin’ it In

Thanksgiving was a smashed cavalcade of sweets and mush,

I vomited and sat alone on Narcotics in the bed watching Star Trek alone,

One night I fought my friend and slapped him hard to prove some point i would only know when in one of my manias, in explaining it to him later i found myself at a loss of words.

A young man punched me with hands like silk and i got right up and asked him what the matter was.

I spent the Night at the E.R where I knew no one cared, I could claim anonymity, die of overdose quietly waiting on their response to my queries.

The next day I met a friend at a disreputable hotel, he looked me  in the eye and handed me money for what ailed me, we embraced and since then  he has vanished,

When writing we put forth the good side, claim its what has taught or will teach those we seek to counsel, however what if we were honest, we writers, showed our underbellies, tested our strength, risked our pride, stopped lying.

I came home, angry with myself, my diseases, my inept existence, a world which makes me invalid and finds merit with others, angry with it all. I had a fit and screamed at my wife.

Its the season when we all gather our funds and wonder how to get by until the taxes we paid are partially handed back to us like a gift, hush money, something of that nature.

Truly it is the equinox ,an adopted time to celebrate the Christ of the most powerful clerical system in the west since what we call modern times.  I find joy in the lights and warmth and the fooling of my children to believe falsehoods, hoodwinked we all were, and a good thing i count it, human nature needs not be always aware.

My brain pulses like a vague machine i give reference to when i least should, a guide i ignore, the December,is eating at us with the cold, we wear warm jackets, all made of wool from the far reaches, none of us can sew.

Ive moved like a larva for six months and now i refuse to wake, beating heart, wake me. I button my coat, the fog lies in like a blanket swathing me, i know each dawn will be there, more like an animal which is loyal, than a friend.